


bitch i'm a monster

by see_addy_write



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Blood Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 20:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20396026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/see_addy_write/pseuds/see_addy_write
Summary: For three years, Alex Manes has remained isolated, trying to keep the people he cares about safe from the monster inside of him. After being changed in the middle of a warzone, he's got more questions than answers about his condition ... but none of that matters when he wakes up stranded in the middle of the New Mexican desert with Michael Guerin,starving.[Cross-posted from my tumblr, seeaddywrite]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have never written an AU before. i've never wanted to write an AU before. & yet, here we are, after a bizarre thought brought on by reading too much urban fantasy. 
> 
> a couple of notes: this story assumes that Alex was human until the accident in which he lost his leg, and that he was turned in that same incident. until that point, all canon events were the same. when the show begins, Alex is already a vampire, which changes nothing in canon. it ignores all events of the S1 finale. also, keep in mind that Alex was turned and abandoned. He doesn't know much about vampirism, so a lot of his fears and insecurities come from ignorance, in combination with his canonical trauma. last! i do not write explicit sexual content, but this does really toe the line, so if you are uncomfortable with graphic descriptions of blood drinking, blood-drinking leading to sexual feelings, or references to sexual content, this is not the story for you. 
> 
> otherwise, thanks for reading! i hope you enjoy this strange little world as much as i've enjoyed playing in it.

The sharp, stabbing pain in his residual limb is the first sign. It’s a _human_ pain, one easily avoided if Alex is careful and drains one of the packets in his specialized, hidden cooler on a consistent schedule. But that cooler is in his cabin, safely stashed in the sub-basement that Jim Valenti had kindly left him, and Alex is stranded in the middle of the goddamn desert without access to anything that would help the pain disappear.

It takes several minutes for the severity of the situation to process, though, since Alex is busy blinking the remnants of unconsciousness from his eyes and trying to figure out how he’d gone from reclining on his couch to what seemed to be the middle of the New Mexican desert. He groans and pushes himself up from coarse, brownish grass and gritty red dirt. There’s nothing ahead of him for miles but desert landscape and waves of heat rising from the ground; it’s got to be close to midday, as the sun is still high in the sky and beating down on him. It makes his skin feel too-tight and sore, like he’s got a low-level sunburn, and Alex has spent enough time in deserts to know that it will only get worse the longer he’s outside. 

The sun might not reduce him to ash like it does in horror films, but sunlight is still not kind to vampires. The damage it causes will burn through whatever blood is left in his system at twice the normal speed, and leave him starving even faster than he wants to consider. It’s not worth thinking about, not yet -- it’ll only make him panic, and he needs to be focused on getting back to his cabin before he loses himself to baser instincts. 

“_Fuck_,” he mutters passionately, giving himself approximately thirty seconds to acknowledge how miserable he is before forcing his tactical mind and survival training to take over -- but he doesn’t have the chance. A short, wry chuckle from behind him makes Alex jump, and he twists around abruptly to find the source, his body habitually trying to find a defensive stance, even from his seated position in the dirt. 

“Yeah. _Fuck_ pretty much sums it up,” Michael Guerin drawls, his achingly familiar features drawn into a pinched scowl as he surveys their surroundings, and Alex’s heart sinks. Stranded alone in the desert is bad enough, but Michael’s presence makes it worse, despite the traitorous feeling of security and pleasure that sparks in Alex’s chest when he sees him. It’s a vestigial reaction from the days when Alex was _allowed_ to think of Guerin as his only port in a storm, and he hates that he can’t shake it even now, with years of one night stands, abandonment, and heartbreak between them. “Whoever knocked us out and dropped us here got our phones and dosed me with pollen. Again.” He shakes his head, hard, and a cloud of yellow dust surrounds him briefly to illustrate his point. 

It takes a moment for Alex to remember the significance of the dust. It’s been over a year since Noah’s death and the discovery of the strange powder that nullified the aliens’ powers, and he’s had too much on his mind to spare it much thought in the intervening time. Jesse Manes’ escape from Kyle’s hospital and the subsequent skirmishes with him had taken up all of Alex’s time and energy -- but he knows intimately how much Michael loathes feeling powerless, and that frustration is obvious in the tight pull of his shoulders and the set of his jaw. For a moment, Alex wants to get up and smooth the lines in his face with his fingertips, to kiss away the fury at feeling helpless that burns in his own chest as much as Michael’s, but as always, he holds himself back. Getting close enough to touch Guerin at this point is too dangerous, anyway; every time Alex has allowed himself such luxury since his transition to vampire, the fight to keep his appearance and instincts within human bounds had been nearly impossible to win. He’d been an inch away from burying his fangs in Michael’s neck the last time they’d been naked together -- which is going to stay the last time they were together. Alex isn’t going to allow his love for Michael to put him in any more danger than his alien heritage already does. Especially not danger from _Alex_. 

“You gonna sit there until you dehydrate?” It takes a moment to process the question as Alex looks up at Michael. His jeans are covered in the reddish-brown dirt of the desert rather than the streaks of oil Alex is used to seeing. There’s a sprawling purple bruise across his sternum, revealed only because there are several buttons undone at his collar, and his curls are in utter disarray, matted with dried blood at one temple. Alex does his best to keep the latter as a clinical observation, but he swallows convulsively at the realization, forcing himself to focus on Michael’s scowl instead of the blood. His stomach cramps at the sight anyway, reminding him that it’s well past time for his bagged lunch, and he drags his gaze away. 

Michael waves a hand in front of Alex’s face in silent offer to help him up, and he takes it without thinking. As always, the contrast between his extreme body heat and Alex’s undead cold is shocking, but Michael doesn’t seem to notice. Everyone feels considerably cooler to him, Alex imagines, so the difference must not be as noticeable as it would be to others. Still, he’s careful to release Michael as soon as he’s found his balance on both feet, and to mask the wince that threatens to contort his face as he does so. He’s never really had to deal with aches or pains in his residual limb, even immediately after the amputation, because he’d healed with miraculous speed after he began to feed on a consistent schedule. 

It wasn’t actually that simple, of course. Alex had woken alone in a military hospital with limited memories of the explosion that put him there. The blast itself was still a blank spot in his mind, but if he tries, he can picture the tall, broad-shouldered Sebastian Erickson leaning over him, his ABUs torn and bloodied though there were no visible wounds on his body. Alex remembers trying to look at him, to focus and tell him to go get the others to safety, but Sebastian had only smiled sadly and rested a cold hand on his forehead. “This is going to hurt, I am afraid,” he’d said, in the same old-time accent that Alex remembered from nights at the bar with his squadron and countless training simulations. “But it is the only way you will live.” 

Alex remembers the words, but no accompanying panic. He hadn’t even felt pain at that point, just a vague sense of disconnect from the world around him and the sudden, overwhelming certainty that he was about to die. He’d always imagined he would fear death, would fight it with everything in him, but it had seemed a relief, then. No more war. No more guilt. No more anything. But the moment he relaxed into it, allowed himself to accept his fate, Sebastian’s familiar visage was in his line of sight, twisted into something … other. Something _monstrous_. And while the thought of death wasn’t enough to make Alex panic, blood-red eyes and fangs, it seemed, were. 

The flash of fang, the burning pain that started in his neck at the site of the bite and spread through his entire body with alarming alacrity, are crystal clear in his shoddy memory. Alex remembers screaming for help, clutching at Sebastian’s hand until it was just _gone_, along with Sebastian himself, as if he’d never been there in the first place. 

The next foggy memory Alex has is from days later, after his amputation. He was high on pain medication and barely lucid, but there’s no forgetting Sebastian’s sudden presence in the tiny, sterile room. After the initial burst of fear, an instinctive panic that comes from two predators in a room together while one is weak and vulnerable, Sebastian had begun to explain. It was the first time Alex had heard the word _vampire_ outside bad pop culture references, and even high on painkillers, he’d believed it too fantastical to be true -- until Sebastian had snarled, fangs flashing in his mouth beneath fluorescent lights, and bit into his forearm. Blood streamed crimson over his pale skin, and from feet away, Alex could _smell_ it. His mouth watered, his gums throbbed, and when he blinked, his vision was suddenly too good, taking in every detail of the hospital room before he even looked in that direction. 

Then, the bloody wound was shoved beneath his nose, and Alex loses the thread. He remembers sensations, feelings -- the way his entire body thrilled at the first drop against his lips, the first impression of his tongue against elongated teeth, the pure euphoria his first swallow. He’s been high on weed and drunk off his ass, but nothing else compares to that initial rush of fresh blood in his mouth. And at that point, there was really no denying the truth of it any longer. Alex _was_ a vampire, and it did no good to pretend otherwise. 

When it was done, Sebastian disappeared, sliding through the tiny window with inhuman grace and without a backward glance. He left a phone number for his contact at a blood bank in Sacramento, California, behind, and tucked a tiny cooler full of blood packets beneath the bed, where the doctors would have no reason to look -- and Alex never saw him again. He’d been forced to learn most of what he knows of vampirism on his own by trial and error, and he’s lived in constant fear of what he’s capable of ever since. 

“Alex? Alex! Did you end up with a concussion or something? _Hello_?” 

The increasingly anxious voice pulls Alex back to the present, and he blinks, shaking his head and taking a step back, far enough away that the temptation to touch Michael eases. “No, I’m fine,” he says with a tight smile. In all honesty, he may have had a concussion, but it’s long healed by now. “I don’t remember anything about how we got here, though. You?” 

It doesn’t matter, really; the course of action is still the same. Get the hell out of the desert, find a way back to town, and hopefully manage to do it all before he ends up revealing his less-than-human side to Michael. But Alex isn’t the sort of person to be hit over the head and dragged out into the middle of the desert without wanting to know who’d done it -- if they didn’t get what they were after the first time, there’s too high a chance that they’d try again. Plus, whoever had done this has to know about Michael and his siblings’ secret to have used the pollen. That alone is enough of a reason to find and stop them; there are too many ways that information could be used against them, and Alex won’t let it happen. 

It turns out, Alex needn’t have worried. 

“C’mon, Manes, think about it. Who are the only people who know about this shit that aren’t on our side?” He brushes another waterfall of the yellow powder to the desert floor, scowling at it furiously. “Plus, you and me? Not Max or Isobel? Not Valenti, or Liz, or the half of the damn town who knows what we are? It’s gotta be personal. Who’s the only guy you know who’d want to take you and me out first?” 

Alex sucks in a sharp breath, ignoring the scent of Michael’s blood that it drags into his lungs. It’s impossible to deny that he’s right -- even though Alex very much wishes he could, because the insinuations are terrifying. 

“My dad,” he says tersely, rubbing at his temples in a futile attempt to stop the ache building behind his eyes. _Of course_ it was his father. Jesse Manes is the only addition to this fiasco that could possibly make it worse, and that’s the way Alex’s luck has been running, lately. “Remind me to call Kyle as soon as we get back to town. He’ll need the heads-up to make sure no one shows up behind him with a gun again.” 

Michael stares flatly back at him, incredulity glowing in his eyes. “That’s what you’re worried about right now? Seriously? Look around, Alex!” He spreads his arms wide, encompassing the expanse of desert surrounding them, touching the horizon on all sides. There’s no sign of the way they’d come, no way of knowing for sure in which direction home was, and they’d been left with no supplies or methods of communication. Just the two of them, with Michael’s powers muted and Alex’s useless without a steady source of blood. 

In short, they’re _screwed_. 

Alex presses his lips together tightly, then nods curtly, conceding the point. “Yeah, okay. Valenti’s on his own for now,” he agrees, and tries to organize his thoughts, filtering out the voices in the back of his head that are screaming that he’s going to either starve in the middle of this wasteland or end up fang-deep in Michael’s neck before he can stop himself. 

“As long as this isn’t all a diversion, I think everyone else will be fine until we get back and show we ruined the grand plan … whatever the hell that is,” Michael muses thoughtfully, and Alex’s shoulders slump in relief when he keeps talking. Not because his thoughts bring good news, but because it gives him something else to focus on, anything else, besides the steadily growing panic in his chest and the hunger that’s beginning to gnaw ruthlessly at his insides. “Any ideas? Kidnapping us and leaving before we’re dead isn’t exactly Jesse’s style. He’s usually into more hands-on stuff: torture, gunshots to the head, fiery explosions, all the classics. So why’d he dump us out here when there’s a good chance we’ll be able to find our way back and come after him?” 

Alex calls on years of military discipline to keep from squirming at the questions. He knows the answer, of course. His father has been his nemesis, his war, since he was eight years old, and Alex believes in knowing thy enemy. Jesse Manes is a sadist. He gets off on watching others hurt and always has -- especially when it comes to Alex, who has managed to disappoint him in every way a son can. He’s gay. He’s unalterably in love with an alien. And three years ago, when he should have died in an IED explosion, adding to the family legacy, Alex became something inhuman instead. It’s the perfect trifecta of sins, in his father’s eyes, and being dumped in a sun-scorched desert at midday with nothing and no one around besides a powerless -- and therefore defenseless -- Michael Guerin is his idea of a fitting punishment. 

Even after discovering all of Jesse Manes’ secrets, Alex still has no idea how he found out about his condition, but that doesn’t matter. He knows, and at least _thinks_ he knows how to kill a vampire. And Alex has to admit that this is a good way to do it. Eventually, instinct will take over and he’ll end up attacking Michael to stay alive. And afterward, in time, Alex will begin to dessicate from lack of blood. At least, he assumes so -- no one has ever actually told him what happens when a vampire goes too long without blood, but movies and literature all seem to agree that the consequences are unpleasant. 

Not that it particularly matters. Alex isn’t naive enough to think he’d care about what came next if he lost control of himself and _murdered_ the love of his life. He’s a vampire, and maybe a bit monstrous, in the right light, but his heart still beats faster when Michael looks at him, and he doubts he’ll ever be able to shake the warmth that infuses his body when their eyes meet. Together or not, Alex loves Michael, and while he may have managed to forgive himself for a long list of sins, killing him isn’t one that Alex could ever recover from. And a world without Michael isn’t one that he wants to exist in, even if the guilt wasn’t enough to kill him instantaneously. 

None of that is information he plans on sharing with Guerin, at least not yet, not until he’s absolutely sure they can’t make it back to Roswell before the situation becomes critical. They don’t even know how far out they are -- maybe they can hike back in a few hours with no worse repercussions than dehydration and a sun burn. They both tend toward the pessimistic, both looking for the worst-case scenario as a direct result of the ways they were raised, but Alex doesn’t have any choice but to hope for the best, this time. Hope for the best … and prepare for the worst.

“I don’t know,” Alex lies, leaning down to hide his face under the guise of adjusting his compression sock. Even with all of the unpleasantness and recent distance between them, Michael knows Alex too well, and the last thing Alex wants is for him to read the falsehood in his expression. “But it doesn’t really matter now. We have to get back to town as soon as possible.” 

Michael rolls his eyes. “No, really? I thought we’d stay and take a nice vacation,” he snarks, head cocked to one side as he rakes agitated fingers through his curls. Yellow powder again coalesces into a cloud around his head before falling to the sand, and Michael’s lips tighten angrily. “This stuff is literally choking me. I can’t reach Iz or Max until it’s gone, so we’re on our own, unless Daddy Dearest was nice enough to leave you a phone?”

Alex sighs heavily, eyeing the horizon with displeasure. It’s going to be a long fucking day. “We’d better get a move on, then,” he tells Michael, and points them north, toward what he hopes is civilization.


	2. Chapter 2

The pain in his leg becomes harder and harder to ignore the longer they walk, and Alex knows he’s got a limited amount of time before Michael gives up on pretending he hasn’t noticed out of respect for Alex’s pride and starts asking questions. They’ve been trudging through the red dirt for hours in almost total silence, both too tired and too uncertain of where they stand with each other for much chatter, but Alex is observant. He’s caught the quick, worried glances Michael’s been tossing in his direction every so often, usually after he slips on an unsteady patch of rock or sand and can’t subdue a grunt of pain. Frustration mounts as he continues to struggle over the uneven terrain; one of the few benefits of vampirism is that he’s not supposed to have to deal with this shit. 

So, naturally, he’s distracted enough by that misery that Alex barely notices when the itch in his gums starts. In comparison to the throb in his leg, it’s such a minor irritation that it shouldn’t matter -- but it does. That itch signals the appearance of fangs, which are difficult to hide at the best of times. It also signals an alarming loss of control, one that’s rather unprecedented, at least for Alex. He’s rarely allowed himself to get this far past a scheduled meal without drinking blood. Not when he knows what happens next. The transformation will force itself, with or without his permission, and there will be no more pretending at humanity in front of Michael. He could _maybe_ keep the teeth hidden if he was careful not to speak, but red irises and the awful, sprawling black veins that mar his otherwise cadaverously pale skin aren’t subtle. He’s glimpsed them in the mirror before, after nightmares have robbed him of his impeccable control, or on the rare occasion that he’s been unable to drink regularly, and the sight makes him uncomfortable. He can only imagine how Michael would feel. 

“Stop.” Michael’s in front of him, half-turned and gaze focused on Alex’s bad leg critically. It makes him squirm a little, to be the subject of such intense scrutiny, especially since he knows how good Michael is at solving problems. He’s going to arrive at the wrong conclusions, though, since he doesn’t have all of the facts, and Alex feels sick to his stomach at the thought. He doesn’t want to tell Michael the truth. He’s spent the last year in Roswell doing his best to stay away from him, to keep him safe and sheltered from the dangerous truth of Alex’s existence, and now, Jesse Manes has put them both in an untenable position. 

“What is it?” Alex asks shortly, rather than dwell on the helpless fury starting to rage in his chest at the thought of his father. The question turns out to be pointless a moment later, when he turns to face in the same direction and finds a small copse of bedraggled trees and browned grass beneath an outcropping of rock. It puts the small bit of foliage and greenery in the shade, which Alex supposes is how it’s been able to thrive - but he’s not a naturalist, and doesn’t much care how it’s possible as long as he’s not hallucinating from hunger. 

Which, unfortunately, is a very real possibility at this point. His skin is stretched too-tight over his bones, and his head throbs in the sunlight. Usually, direct sun doesn’t cause him a problem, but he’s never spent hours beneath it with no blood, no shade, and no escape, either. Alex imagines he can feel what little blood is left in his system boiling away, leaving nothing behind but starving tissue and the feral, animal instinct to tear into the nearest living thing with his teeth in order to feed himself. 

“Look.” Michael gestures at the shady area with a jab of his thumb, and Alex does his best to ignore that he’s stopped with less than a foot separating them by focusing on the little oasis. “We can rest there for a while. It’s not perfect, but at least we won’t fry in the sun if we take a nap.” 

Logically, Alex knows that stopping is a bad idea. They’re still miles from town, at least, and if they’re going to get back before he loses his mind entirely, they need to keep moving. But he’s worn out and in pain, and Michael doesn’t look like he’s much enjoying their trek through the desert, either. He’s probably starting to dehydrate, considering his higher body temperature, and rest is quickly going to become a necessity, rather than choice. 

So Alex nods, and trails Michael to the shadier area. He sits with his back to the largest tree-like shrub; it bends slightly beneath his weight, but not enough to convince him to move. Michael joins him, sitting a bit more gracefully on the ground a few feet away. That distance between them has become the new normal, at some point, but Alex is intensely aware of it today, when he’d appreciate the physical comfort that Michael’s always doled out so easily. 

“Are you going to be able to keep going?” 

The question catches Alex off-guard, and he turns to look at Michael, one eyebrow raised in surprise. “What?” 

There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence, like Michael’s trying to figure out how to best broach the subject without being condescending or offensive, and Alex isn’t sure the odds are in his favor. So, rather than wasting any time with bickering, he answers the question before Michael can formulate it. “I’ll be fine. It sucks, and it’ll hurt, but I’ll be fine.” 

The words ring true, and Alex hopes desperately that it’s some sort of prescience, because in reality, he’s not entirely sure he’s being honest. His leg isn’t going to be what stops him from making it back to town, though, so he lets himself enjoy the fact that for once, he doesn’t have to lie to Michael. It seems like that’s all he’s done since he got back -- lie about what he is, about how he feels, about why he can’t give into those feelings. It’s a miracle that Alex can even recognize himself in the mirror anymore, and doesn’t believe his own bullshit, because he’s been telling those lies for so long that he doesn’t even have to think about it, anymore. 

Michael nods slowly, willing to accept the answer but obviously doubting whether or not he should believe it. Eventually, his intense gaze turns from Alex to their surroundings, the analytical gleam in his eyes making it clear, at least to Alex, that he’s trying to think their way out of this mess. 

Alex watches him, rather than empty space; Michael in problem-solving mode is a thing of beauty. Watching him put his intellect to work has always been a turn-on for Alex. So few people get to see it, the genius that shines through Michael’s eyes when he’s got a puzzle to put together, but it’s always been unfairly distracting for Alex. It’s worse now, with his focus already drifting, and he can’t stop himself from watching as Michael tries to reason their way back to town. 

There’s a voice in the back of his mind that warns him his besotted staring is impossible to miss, that Michael’s going to notice and call him on it, and Alex will have to push him away again, but he can’t stop. He wants to reach out, to press his palms against the planes of Michael’s back, obvious through the sweat-soaked cotton of his shirt, and pull him in close. He wants the overheated feel of their skin pressing together, wants to drag that impossible warmth into his own frozen form, wants to lick the blood from the cut at Michael’s temple and score new marks with his own teeth so that no one will be able to look at that beautiful body without knowing that it belongs to _Alex_ \-- 

_Fucking hell_. No. That line of thinking isn’t Alex, isn’t normal, and he refuses to let himself fall into it. Eventually, he suspects there won’t be a choice, but he’s still enough in control of his faculties to stop it, now. And thinking of Michael that way, as if he’s Alex’s fucking territory, like he has exclusive rights to his body and his blood, is disgusting. _Inhuman_. Already, after a just a few hours in the sun without sustenance, he’s sunk to that level.   
  
He should be making a plan, or thinking about the fact that Michael is going to dehydrate if they don’t find water soon. He’s spent nearly half of his adult life in deserts a lot harsher than this one and knows how to handle himself, especially after dozens of SEREs with the Air Force. Alex _should_ be more useful than this. But he’s stupid with hunger, distracted and aching with it, and he has serious doubts about his ability to be anything but a liability. 

“Maybe we should rest here until the sun goes down,” Michael says, interrupting Alex’s internal meltdown. He thinks he’s done a pretty job of keeping his thoughts from showing on his face, but there’s a concerned glint in Michael’s appraising look that tells him he let something slip into his expression. “Walking will be less exertion while it’s cooler, and the less we sweat, the more we conserve water.” 

“No!” Alex says immediately, shaking his head vehemently before common sense can catch up with his instincts. “We have to get back to town as soon as possible. We can’t stop for _hours_!” 

The outburst is bordering on hysteria, and Alex wants to take it back as soon as he’s done speaking. He’s got Michael’s full attention again; dark eyes narrow on his face, bewilderment and annoyance melding in their depths. He raises both hands in a mockery of surrender, but crosses them over his chest immediately after, clearly gearing up for a fight. “Alex. Come on. This is Survival 101, and I didn’t think I’d have to tell you that. If we don’t get out of the desert in a few days, we’re going to be in trouble, yeah, but we’ve gotta make sure we don’t die in the meantime. This is smart, and we need to be smart right now.” 

He pauses, tipping his head back against the thin trunk of the tree, and asks, “Is this still about Valenti? Because I seriously doubt your dad’s going after him, yet. People will notice if the only decent doctor in Roswell disappears under mysterious circumstances. Plus, Max owes Kyle, and he knows it. He’s been keeping an eye on him, and Max’d love the chance to kick your dad’s ass.”

Alex shakes his head, trying to organize his swimming thoughts into a reasonable explanation. He doesn’t know if it’s just the passage of time or the rapid increase of stress at the idea of being forced to wait longer for blood, but the hunger is _roaring_ in the back of his head now, making it hard to think straight, let alone speak coherently. 

Warmth seeps into him from a single point of contact at his elbow — Michael’s hand on his skin. Alex turns toward him blindly, blinking in surprise when he realizes that the distance from earlier is gone, and Michael’s only a few inches away and touching him willingly, now. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks, skepticism dripping from the question. “You’re really pale, considering we’ve been in the direct sun for hours. Are you dizzy? Headache?” 

If Alex wasn’t too busy fighting against his own mind, he would’ve appreciated the concern in Michael’s voice and the careful, gentle touch to his arm. He’s always so damn sweet with Alex, gentle physically even when he’s yelling and furious. It’s one of the first things Alex remembers falling in love with him for, that beautiful kindness. After years of rough treatment at the hands of people who claimed to love him, it was jarring in all the best ways, and Alex had internalized every little touch, every crumb of affection he was granted. And even though that sweetness has been buried inside of Michael over the years, hidden by a rough exterior, Alex sees it almost every time they’re together and craves that gentleness for himself. 

It’s not a surprise that thinking of all the ways Alex wants Michael makes the hunger worse. The irritation in his gums grows until he wants to dig his fingernails into them to stop the itching, and his stomach cramps painfully, making him shift restlessly on the ground. Some part of Alex is cognizant enough to realize that Michael’s still checking for concussion symptoms, and he almost wants to laugh. A head injury would’ve been so much easier to deal with than the truth. 

“Alex!” Alarm colors Michael’s exhalation of his name, but Alex slumps to the side just the same, curling his knees into his stomach and wrapping his arms around them tightly until he’s made himself as small as possible. Fuck, this _hurts_. The sharp, cramping ache spreads from his leg and stomach to his entire body too quickly to track, and Alex loses time as he battles with the hissing, desperate voice deep in his subconscious that bellows for him to stop this. It would be so, so easy, to get up and push Michael to the ground, to score marks in his throat and drink his fill. Michael could barely fight back without his powers, and surely, if he loves Alex as much as he claims to, he wouldn’t deny him vital nutrients.

“Alex, you’ve gotta talk to me,” Michael’s saying urgently, and there’s a hand on his back, branding his skin with that impossible warmth. Alex groans and tries to slide away, the touch fraying his tenuous control, but Michael moves with him, leaning in close enough that Alex wouldn’t even have to sit up to bite him. “What hurts? Is it your leg? What can I do?” 

Alex shakes his head, heedless of the loose dirt that flies everywhere when he does. “You’ve got to go,” he manages to say, pushing the words through a clenched jaw. He’s afraid that if he opens his mouth the whole way, there’s nothing that will stop his fangs from sliding forward and rendering everything he’s ever done to keep Michael safe _useless_. 

“Go?” Michael repeats incredulously. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m not going anywhere without you!” 

The entire situation is eerily reminiscent of the afternoon at Caulfield, and Alex utterly refuses to have this fight. There’s no time, not when every second sends him careening closer and closer to the limits of his self control. His muscles are screaming at him now, begging for relief as the starved tissue contracts and contorts beneath his skin, and Alex doesn’t know how much longer he can do this. “Guerin — Michael. Michael, _please_.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he could bring himself to care about the fact that he’s got no pride left. Worst of all, he barely knows what he’s begging for; he wants Michael to run nearly as much as he wants him to stay, and that’s fucking terrifying. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Michael says again, his voice hard even as his fingers find Alex’s clamped around his legs and try to pry them loose. He ends up winning because Alex doesn’t have the willpower to fight — their digits tangle together against his good leg, and Michael squeezes reassuringly. “C’mon, Alex. We’re in the middle of the fucking desert and there’s too much we can’t control already. You’ve got to tell me what’s going on with you. We can’t afford any more surprises.”

Alex drags in a long breath through his nose and, embarrassingly enough, has to bite down hard on his lower lip to keep it from wobbling. He’s not a crier; growing up with Jesse Manes taught him to hide his tears early. But the knowledge that he’s out of options, that he’s either going to have to come clean to Michael or risk his life, hurts more than any punch or kick ever could. Helplessness isn’t an emotion Alex has allowed himself to feel in a long time, and it makes him burn with shame and impotence. 

But if Guerin won’t go, Alex knows he’s going to have to tell him _something_ before he ends up flashing fang or lifting burning, red eyes to meet his gaze. There’s no chance of that ending well, not without some sort of warning — he knows Michael, knows that he doesn’t react well when he’s backed into a corner. But a long, drawn-out explanation isn’t going to happen, either, not now. 

“I don’t know how to tell you,” he mumbles into his knees, focusing on keeping his breath steady and the way that Guerin’s fingers feel in his own, rather than the fact that he can hear every beat of Michael’s heart, every pump as it pushes blood through his veins. “I don’t _want_ to tell you! I kept you safe for three years, and he fucking _ruined_ it.” Alex has to stop and swallow against a sudden swell of pain or risk crying out, which he won’t do, damn it. He won’t. 

Michael’s obviously not following. He shifts in the dirt, dragging himself closer to Alex’s curled form. Would he do that if he knew the truth? Would he dare get so close if he knew that at any second, Alex’s control might snap, and leave him fang-deep in Michael’s carotid? Alex doubts it. God knows he wouldn’t do it, were their positions reversed. 

“Alex, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Guerin tries, and for the first time, he sounds hesitant. “But if you’ve been keeping me safe for that long, then I’m pretty sure it’s time for me to return the favor.” Heat caresses his spine, starting low on Alex’s neck and sweeping down in slow, broad strokes that remind him of summer nights spent in the bed of Michael’s truck, sweat-sticky and sated while they stare up at the stars. Michael had stroked his back like this then, too, usually after a particularly bad night with Jesse, when words just didn’t cut it. 

Strangely enough, it’s that memory that gives Alex the strength to consider telling the truth. Michael has been his safe place for well over a decade, whether Alex could physically be in his embrace or had to content himself with the mere memory of Michael’s arms around him, and if Alex allows himself to hope — maybe his revelation won’t be the end of that. Maybe it’ll be the start of something different, something _new_.

Another cramp tears through his body, and Alex’s arms give out, releasing his legs as his entire body arches with the electric jolt. His mouth falls open on a silent moan, and the decision of whether or not to explain is ripped from him as his fangs tear free of his gums. The transformation takes less than a second; Alex’s visage shifts from his usual, human appearance to something demonic in the space of a blink. His vision shifts, going from basic 20/20 to good enough that he can see each individual grain of sand beneath him, and an ant crawling up the trunk of a tree twenty feet distant. His head throbs with the sudden influx of new information, and Alex squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore the scent of Michael’s skin and the blood beneath. 

“What —” Guerin’s soft, shocked question is aborted before it even really begins, and Alex swallows convulsively against the fear rising in his throat. He doesn’t need to look over to know that Michael is afraid, not when he can hear his heart thundering in his chest, can feel the tension in his frame even from a foot away, and Alex doesn’t think he can bear to open his eyes and see the rejection in Michael’s expression. So he presses a hand over his face, hiding the blood red of his eyes and the black veins that spiderweb around them as best he can and tries to focus on steadying his own breathing.

“Vampire,” Alex whispers, in answer to the unvoiced question. The word is clear, despite the awkwardness of speaking around his fangs, and it hangs in the stagnant air between them. “I’m a vampire, and I’m fucking hungry, okay? That’s what’s wrong!” His throat is raw around the words, his voice hoarse from everything he’s not saying. “Now will you just go? I can’t —” He swallows again, breath turning ragged as he struggles against tears and that same, all-consuming hunger that’s been plaguing him for what feels like days. “I can’t control it. It _hurts_, Michael. It hurts, and I _can’t control it_.” 

He’s ready for the sound of Michael getting to his feet, but his heart still breaks a little when it comes. Alex squeezes his eyelids that much tighter and ignores the tremors starting in his fingers, bracing himself for the moment that he can no longer hear Michael at all— until there are suddenly warm, calloused hands covering his and pulling them carefully away from his face. Panic surges, and Alex tries to jerk away from Michael’s careful grip. It doesn’t work; instead, he ends up staring up into Michael’s frighteningly inscrutable expression as his shaking hands are enveloped in Michael’s. 

“I told you,” comes the soft reply. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS chapter is where the blood-drinking comes in, as well as the non-explicit sexual content.

To Alex, it’s as if the world freezes in the next moment. 

The hunger is still there, clawing at his insides, but it seems less all-consuming than it had a moment ago. It’s shock, maybe — Alex certainly feels numb enough, and the ringing in his ears and disconnect from his own body are the same symptoms he woke up to when he’d lost his leg. And really, it makes sense. This is _impossible_. Michael, sitting cross-legged in front of him, staring back evenly into the _vampire’s_ eyes that Alex couldn’t conceal any longer. Their knees are touching, now that Alex has shoved himself back into a sitting position, and Michael’s got a hold of both his hands as if he’s afraid Alex will be the one to leave since he’s refused. If they’d been wearing less clothing and not trapped in the middle of the desert, it would be a scene straight out of Alex’s fantasies, and it _doesn’t make any goddamn sense_. 

He’s known since Sebastian did this to him that Michael couldn’t ever find out, that no one could ever find out, could ever be involved in this part of Alex’s world. Every time Alex had succumbed to a moment of weakness and allowed Michael to get closer, his imagination had conjured images of the disgust, the horror, that would paint his face if he ever saw Alex like this. He’d convinced himself that keeping Michael far, far away from his darker self was the only way to keep him safe, and now that it’s all ruined, Alex has no idea what he’s supposed to do next — especially since at this moment, it feels like he’s smothering in his own skin and the only available source of oxygen is the blood flowing through Michael’s veins.

“Alex, _breathe_.” Calloused hands release Alex’s, only to take hold of his shoulders and shake. The motion is gentle, but it’s enough to make him realize that while he hadn’t been registering the pain, it had still taken hold. His entire body had seized, his muscles tensed, and at some point, he’d stopped breathing. So he lets the air out of his lungs in a sharp exhale and shoves Michael back, putting at least a few inches between his body and Alex’s teeth. He can smell it now, the blood, and his baser self is locked on that scent like a shark would be on bleeding prey in open water. It doesn’t matter that Michael has no open wounds, that Alex shouldn’t be able to smell blood contained by skin. But the fragile barrier is nothing to his supernatural senses. It would take less than an instant for Alex to rend that flesh and have living blood in his mouth, flowing through his veins — 

And _fuck_, apparently a few inches of space isn’t enough to get that scent out of his nose. Alex clenches his jaw and closes his lips, less to hide the fangs that Guerin’s already seen and more to put an added layer of pathetic protection between them and Michael’s fragile body.

“Why can’t you ever just listen?” Alex demands, though the words emerge as more of a ragged sob than the accusation he wants them to be. “Fuck, Guerin, would it kill you to just follow an order _once_ in your life?” Like the onset of the attacks, the release is unpredictable. Alex’s muscles suddenly unclench, and he slumps forward, elbows on his knees and shoulders hunched as he struggles to catch his breath while he can. 

“This time, I think it would have killed _you_,” Michael says tersely, and when Alex lifts his aching head to look at him, he actually has the gall to look angry. Alex is trying to protect him, to get him to see reason and run for once in his damned life while his entire body screams at him to do otherwise, and _Michael’s_ pissed? Unbelievable. 

“You do realize you just basically had a seizure or something, right?” Michael continues, his voice unyielding. “While we’re god knows how far from help?”

Alex’s laugh is bitter and inappropriate, but he can’t help it. “Help? Christ, Guerin, look at me.” He lifts his chin and forces his lips apart so that his fangs are on display. He knows all too well what he looks like — predatory. Inhuman. Monstrous. He holds the position for as long as he can stand, letting Michael see everything he’s so painstakingly hidden for the last several years. Every wall he’s put in place to keep himself safely hidden away is gone, and Alex is left feeling exposed and vulnerable and off-kilter, and he’s not ashamed to admit that his temper is short. “What the hell do you think a hospital can do for me? I’m a _vampire_, Michael. I can’t go to a doctor any more than you can. They don’t exactly give the kind of blood transfusions I need.” 

“Right.” Michael is quiet for a moment, and Alex uses the respite to duck his head, chin to chest, and tries to figure out his next move. If Michael won’t leave him, the next logical solution is for Alex to leave — but he’s not optimistic about his ability to even stand, right now, let alone move fast enough that Michael won’t be able to keep up with him. Under normal circumstances, he could run faster than the human (or alien) eye could track; he could get back to Roswell in five minutes and this entire nightmare would be over. But somehow, Jesse Manes has enough information on vampires to know what constant exposure to sunlight does to Alex. He has enough data to organize the perfect trap for Alex and Michael — and as long as they make it out of this damned desert alive, Alex is going to find out how, exactly, his father knows all of it, and he’s going to make damn sure this never happens again. With his _teeth_, if necessary. 

“For god’s sake, this is ridiculous,” Michael says suddenly, and Alex’s head jolts upright in surprise. Concerned, dark eyes find Alex’s and he finds himself relaxing fractionally at the warmth that has never quite dissipated from that familiar gaze, no matter how bad things have gotten between them. Even now, with his vampiric features on full display, that hasn’t changed — and the desperate hope that flares to life in Alex’s chest at the realization hurts more than hunger ever could. 

“Here.” The decisive tone pulls his attention back to Michael, but before Alex can snap that he really needs to _stop fucking talking_ long enough for Alex to get his inner beast back on a leash, there’s a pale wrist thrust in front of his face, a spiderwebbing of bluish veins immediately drawing the laser-focus of his enhanced vision. The world around him blurs alarmingly, and when it rights itself, Alex’s lips are brushing Michael’s skin. The fingers of one treacherously strong hand are wrapped around Guerin’s wrist, the others around his elbow, and Alex knows his grip is too tight, that he’s pressing finger-print shaped bruises onto the otherwise unmarred canvas of Michael’s skin. But Alex is hanging onto control by his fingernails, and all of his energy is dedicated to keeping his lips tucked over his fangs — he can’t even pull his face away, let alone release the death grip he has on Michael’s arm. 

“Come on, man, just do it.” Impatience colors Michael’s order, and Alex stops breathing entirely, fury at Michael’s lack of self-preservation momentarily eclipsing everything else. “This is all because you’re hungry, right? All the pain, and the seizures, and the uh, teeth?” The hesitance around that word is understandable, and Alex is in enough physical pain that he barely feels the sting of it. “So dig in. I’m an all-you-can-eat alien buffet.” 

Alex exhales raggedly and summons every iota of strength he’s got left to sit back. His fingers are still digging into Michael’s arm, and he can feel the tips of his fangs scoring his own lips, but he’s not about to sink them into Michael, so Alex considers it a win. “This isn’t a joke, Guerin,” he grinds out through a clenched jaw. 

Michael snorts. “You sure? Kind’ve sounds like one, if you think about it. ‘An alien and a vampire are trapped in the desert . . .’” 

For a moment, Alex just stares at the smug, teasing smirk on Michael’s face, rendered utterly speechless by the cavalier attitude toward something that could cost him his goddamned life. It lasts for a moment before Alex’s patience abruptly _snaps_. He snarls, fangs bared, and lunges forward, tackling Michael to the ground in a blur of movement he’d believed himself incapable of only a few moments prior. It’s all too easy to pin Michael’s bulk to the sun-baked dirt with his body; Alex grips strong wrists and forces them to to the ground as he settles his weight against Michael’s thighs. Short of a miraculous disappearance of the pollen still coating his curls, there’s no way Michael can move unless Alex allows it — and he’s not feeling particularly magnanimous at the moment. 

“There’s a rock in my kidney now, thanks,” Guerin gripes breathlessly, the air knocked from his lungs by the impact of his fall. His muscles go lax, head lolling to one side as he looks up into Alex’s furious face expectantly. He makes no effort to fight back; instead, Michael just waits, neck vulnerable and exposed by this new position, and Alex wants to shake him for not realizing the danger he’s inviting. 

“I could _kill you_, and you’re cracking jokes!” he hisses, mouth dangerously close to a major artery as he bends inward, letting the tips of his fangs slide over the shell of Michael’s ear. Finally, the steady, thudding rhythm of Michael’s heartbeat accelerates as Alex pushes him further into the desert floor, and if he wasn’t so damn hungry, so determined to make his fucking point, it would be enough to stop him. Fear isn’t an emotion he ever wants to inspire in Michael, and every human instinct he has screams for Alex to stop, to pull away and tell Michael to start running -- but they’re past that point, now, if it was ever even really an option. 

“You don’t know what you’re risking right now, Guerin. If you had any idea how much I want to hold you down like this and tear into your fucking throat, you wouldn’t be laughing!” He wants to sound angry. He wants Michael to hear the threat inherent in those words, to understand that Alex would never have let his fangs drop if he were in any kind of control, and that every second they play this game is sending him hurtling closer to the edge of a cliff that he won’t be able to avoiding falling from. Nonetheless, the words emerge as more of a desperate croak, and he has to drop his forehead to Michael’s chest to ride out another wave of agony as his body reminds him that he’s only inches from ending it. 

His fingers spasm and his grip fails, but instead of pulling away, Michael just lifts one hand to cup the back of Alex’s head, repositioning them both so that Alex’s face rests in the cradle of Michael’s neck and shoulder. “If you were really out of control, you would’ve done it already,” he says quietly, and Alex can feel the words rumble through his chest where they’re pressed together. “And I trust you.” There are gentle fingers sliding through Alex’s hair, caressing the back of his head, and the soft gesture is in such fierce juxtaposition with the pain raging through his body that he’s not quite sure what to make of it. 

“C’mon, Alex, just let me take care of you this time, huh?” Michael continues to cajole, his voice low and calm, almost hypnotizing, and Alex struggles to remember why biting him would be such a bad idea. He’s still on top of Michael, chest-to-chest, his face tucked into the other man’s neck, and Michael sounds so damn certain that this is the right thing to do, that it would be okay — 

Alex trembles, but gives in. 

There are no other options anymore; Michael isn’t going anywhere, and Alex doubts he would be able to let him, even if he wanted to. And God help him, but he’s _so hungry_. “Two minutes,” he rasps. “Count it out, and if I don’t stop by the time you’re done, yank my hair and make me,” he murmurs against Michael’s skin, wishing that he had the ambition to lift his head and impress the importance of such a request on this man that means so much to him. But the energy that movement would take is too much, and Alex finds himself slumping completely into Michael instead, nuzzling against his neck entirely on instinct. “Don’t let me hurt you, Michael,” he manages, though the quiet plea is barely understandable around his fangs. 

And then, before logic can beat out need and instinct, before Michael can even take a breath to respond, Alex sinks his fangs into the artery pulsing just beneath his nose. 

As soon as the first drop of blood hits Alex’s tongue, any semblance of rational thought ceases to exist. He’s euphoric with the sudden lack of pain, giddy with relief and the taste of something forbidden, and Michael’s hand is still on the back of his head, cradling him as he drinks like he’s something precious. In that moment, negativity and fear flee, and Alex is in no hurry for them to return. He’s never taken blood straight from the source before, is accustomed to refrigerated, congealing goop that barely sates the hunger and leaves him cold and wanting, but able to function as human. 

Michael’s blood, though, is alive. It’s hot and addictive as it drips into Alex’s mouth and turns to raw energy in his veins. Drinking it is like shoving his finger in an electrical socket and seems to create a current over his skin, cranking every nerve receptor up to ten and hyper-sensitizing his entire body. In the rush, Alex forgets to drink, reveling in pure sensation. For the first time in three long years, Alex feels like more than a reanimated corpse going through the motions of life. He feels whole, real, and he never wants to go back. 

A trickle of blood distracts him as it escapes his lips and trails down damp, sunburnt skin. Alex chases it, licking a long stripe up the tendon beneath Michael’s ear before sealing his mouth back over the wound he’d made. Michael shivers beneath him, shifting restlessly, and Alex uses some of his rapidly burgeoning strength to pin him again. Inhuman heat emanates from Michael’s body, soaking through the thin cotton of Alex’s shirt and into his chest, and he presses impossibly closer, his entire body canting into Michael’s. Raw pleasure shoots up his spine as the evidence of his desire presses hard into Michael’s thigh, and Alex is too far gone to be embarrassed. He repeats the movement, a slow roll of his hips, and all but purrs when Michael responds with a cut off groan. 

The low, throaty chuckle that echoes from Michael’s chest resonates through Alex’s as well due to their proximity, and he focuses for a moment, trying to unscramble his brain without disengaging from the source of his newfound energy. With the monster in his head sated by the promise of blood, it’s easier to do, and he abruptly realizes that Michael’s talking to him, murmuring something every time it seems like Alex is going to stop or pull away. The words are lost in the flood of arousal and that overwhelming energy still buzzing through his body, but Alex can hear his voice. He’s always associated that low, lust-rough rumble with contentment, with safety, and the warm embrace cocooning him does nothing to erase that feeling. Instead, it sends the same message to Alex’s subconscious as always: he’s _safe_. He’s loved. He’s wanted. He’s allowed to have this. 

He turns his attention back to the task at hand and drinks from the wound he’d made in slow, careful pulls, savoring every drop of blood as it slides down his throat. Each sip stokes the fire growing low in his stomach, and every shiver or shudder from Michael only encourages Alex on — he’s lost track of anything resembling time, knows only hunger and desire and the pursuit of more. The world outside is lost in a sea of pleasure, and some part of Alex knows that this could be the last time he gets to have Michael this way, the last time he’ll be allowed to touch him, and the rest of him responds with a frightening desperation. 

Then, all too soon, Michael’s tugging gently on his hair, trying to get his attention, and Alex honest-to-god _whines_ when he’s forced to disengage his fangs and look up into Michael’s flushed face. Hunger is still a low, non-exigent buzz beneath his skin, but it’s melded so completely with arousal and energy that Alex can’t separate it any longer. His lips are wet with blood, his features still twisted into a predatory visage, but Michael is smirking at him like he hasn’t noticed, and Alex can’t help but smile back. His humanity is a distant thing, present, but walled off by instinct and want, and he’s in no hurry to let it shackle him back to self-loathing and guilt. 

“That was two minutes,” Michael says while his fingers trail over Alex’s temple and down his cheek. The touch is careful over the blown, black veins around his eyes, but he doesn’t shy away from them. Alex pushes into the touch, letting it soothe the need still burning through his veins. “But I’m not dizzy or anything, and you look like you could use a little bit longer.” The scrutiny should bother him, Alex knows distantly — he doesn’t like being fussed over, and it’s not Michael’s job to take care of him. But in that moment, when he wants nothing more than to meld his skin with his lover’s and keep him there, in that moment forever, it feels good to have Michael’s worried eyes on him. 

But something in the back of Alex’s mind tells him that Michael’s words are important, that he needs to pay attention. _Two minutes?_ The significance of that time frame escapes Alex, though he knows it should mean something, and he struggles to push through the influx of energy and emotion to piece it together. But Michael isn’t repeating himself, is relaxed and comfortable beneath Alex, so the attempt fails. Alex tilts his head to one side, letting his disinterest in the topic be known, and entertains himself by tracing the features of Michael’s face with a fingertip. He stalls when he hits sun-roughened lips, and leans in to press his mouth against them, fangs and all. In this state, Alex is a creature of simple pleasures, and in that moment, all he wants is to kiss Michael. 

There’s no resistance. Michael’s lips part under Alex’s insistent tongue easily, and they get lost in the give and take of kissing and roaming hands. There’s a voice in the back of Alex’s head reminding him that they’re trapped out here, that his father’s trying to kill them, and that lying in the sand is hardly the right place for any of this, but he ignores it. This is what he’s wanted for years, forever, and finally, he’s able to separate himself from stupid, human worries and take it. So he grinds his hips down into Michael’s, chasing sensation and that connection with someone he loves, and makes no effort to hold himself back. His hands slide beneath Michael’s shirt, palms sweeping over the expanse of sweat-tacky skin and muscle, and Alex moans openly when Michael shifts, pressing his thigh up at just the right angle to send sparks dancing along Alex’s spine. 

And for a while, it’s just the two of them lost in a fog of touch and desire. It’s all so familiar and easy, like sliding on an old, comfortable flannel after losing it for years, and Alex can’t quite believe that they’re here again, together and connected in a way that he thought was lost for good. But eventually, Michael has to breathe; Alex can feel him panting raggedly against his mouth and pulls away to give him the chance, even as his body clamors for more.

He repositions himself carefully across Michael’s chest, tucking his cheek against one shoulder, nearest the puncture marks from his last bite, and busies himself with lapping at the weeping wound. Blood has left stains on Michael’s skin and pooled in the divot of his collarbone, and Michael huffs in surprise when Alex’s tongue meets the sensitive area impatiently. The taste isn’t as good now that the blood’s been able to cool, but Alex isn’t picky — and he knows that Michael won’t mind if he bites him again. He’d basically invited it, hadn’t he? 

“So, Anne Rice got the whole blood and sex thing right, huh?” Michael teases, once he’s gotten his breath back. “I guess fiction’s gotta get a lucky guess once in a while … but I’m yet to see the alien movie that gets it right.” 

Alex freezes, humanity returning all too quickly with a flood of embarrassment. He doesn’t know exactly why, but something in that good-natured joke reminds him that this isn’t normal. That he’s spent the last fifteen minutes out of his mind and rutting up against his ex’s thigh like a horny teenager — and the worst part is that even now, with his entire body frozen in mortification, he’s still straddling Michael’s legs with an impossible to miss hard-on. 

“I always thought it was a little unfair, you know? Vampires and werewolves were sexy, and aliens got turned into little green men who get hauled off and dissected in every fucking movie. But I guess I’ll have to let that one go if it’s actually true, huh?” Michael’s rambling, and Alex wonders if it’s because he’s realized that reality has crept back up on Alex, and is trying to help. But even the familiar teasing timbre of Guerin’s voice isn’t enough to ease Alex’s discomfiture. 

“But seriously, do you get hard every time you bite someone, or am I just special?” 

If Alex had been paying attention, he would’ve noticed the note of vulnerability in Michael’s voice as he asked the question. As it is, he’s too swamped with mortification and immediate protest to even wonder why Guerin’s asking. “No!” he bursts out, rolling away from the comforting warmth of Michael’s chest to put six feet of desert between them before he sinks back to the ground and wraps his arms around drawn-up knees. It’s not a reaction he’s proud of; small and vulnerable isn’t a role he adopts often, especially in the middle of a life or death situation. But today has been such a riot of emotion that Alex is _exhausted_, and the fact that he still has to actively work to think more like a human than an animal is wearing at his last reserves. Besides, at this point, Michael’s seen him screaming and seizing in pain, has touched every inch of his scarred flesh, and didn’t hit him when Alex sunk fangs into his neck — there’s not much Alex can do to make himself more vulnerable than that. 

Even while stewing in self-pity, it’s easy to hear Michael get up, and his footfalls on the sand are far from silent. Alex tracks him as he gets closer and is intimately aware when he flops down next to him, heedless of Alex’s deep and abiding desire to put miles between them. He’s silent, obviously correctly interpreting the rigid set of Alex’s spine and the tension in his coiled muscles as a desperate need for time to pull himself together. Alex allows the silence to linger for a while, long enough that it starts to feel tense, before admitting, “I don’t bite _people_, Guerin. Ever. I didn’t know it would be like that. Or I wouldn’t have —” That’s not entirely true. Alex is fairly sure he would have; he’d been perilously close to losing control. So he cuts himself off, then corrects the statement: “I would’ve warned you.” He swallows, staring out at the horizon to avoid looking at Michael. “I’m sorry.”

Alex blames his positioning on why he jumps at the hand on his back; it’s impossible to have been expecting that when he’s got himself convinced that Michael’s going to run off and put as much space between them as possible. It’s what he would do, in the same situation -- alien is one thing. Vampire, though? Dependent, and turned on by, blood? Who the fuck would want that in their lives? 

“Whoa, hey, it’s just me,” Michael promises, and the hand on his shoulder slides down Alex’s spine in an achingly familiar caress. The simple touch brings back so many memories of their time together; the other man has always been overly tactile with Alex, likely because he never got much in the way of physical affection himself. But whatever the reason, Michael’s never been afraid to reach out -- and the fact that he’s doing it even now, with his own blood staining Alex’s lips, is enough to make Alex tremble. He relaxes incrementally — it’s impossible not to, with Michael’s warmth at his side and against his back — and exhales on a slow sigh. 

“Look, I have about a million questions, especially about how it’s possible for you to have never bitten anyone else before,” Michael says, after a moment of fidgeting alongside Alex. He’s clearly been trying to figure out the right way to say something — he always taps the fingers of his good hand on his knee in introspective moments, and Alex has known him too long to miss the signs. Internally, he groans. He doesn’t want to talk about any of this, doesn’t want to get into the limited understanding he has of vampirism or the sad story that led him there. But he owes Michael explanations, especially now, so Alex sits up straight and nods, bracing himself. 

“ — but right now, I just really want to know if you got enough.” Whiskey-colored eyes scan Alex’s body, like Michael could see the symptoms of hunger if he looked closely enough, and the only response Alex can manage is a cracked, disbelieving laugh that borders on hysteria. 

“You’re worried I didn’t drink enough of your blood?” he asks incredulously, once he’s regained some semblance of composure. “I pinned you down, bit you, and basically _molested_ you, and —” 

“Oh, come on, Alex,” Michael interrupts with a derisive snort. “You didn’t molest me. In case you’ve forgotten, _you’re_ the only reason we’re not still having sex on a regular basis. As far as I’m concerned, you can touch me whenever and however you want.” Michael swallows, then adds, “Believe me, man, I wanted that just as much as your vampire hindbrain did. I guess I should’ve known _you_ didn’t really want it, though.” He huffs, a bitter, self-recriminating noise. “The power of wishful thinking, huh? For a minute there, I really thought you did.”

They’re shit at talking and always have been, but Michael’s so much better at openness than Alex. He’s got no problem putting his heart out there to get broken and has given all of his secrets to Alex with an enviable ease, but returning that openness seems all but impossible, no matter how wrong Michael is. So Alex is silent, instead, and uses the time to blink away his more predatory features.

His face shifts back to human, and when he looks up at Michael next, the other man is clearly hurt by his silence and trying to hide it with irritation. “Fine. You don’t want to talk about that? Answer my damn question. Was it enough, or are you going to have another seizure in twenty minutes?” 

Frustration is rough in the words, and forces himself to lift his chin to meet Michael’s gaze head-on with a cool expression of his own. It’s not ideal, but Alex doesn’t know how to give away these pieces of himself without putting up some sort of wall between them. Once he starts giving Michael that access, there won’t be any locking him out again, and Alex is terrified of what that might mean. “I don’t know,” he answers quietly, the words starkly honest. “I’ve never been in this situation before, Guerin. I only ever drink blood from a bag, and I don’t usually make a habit of spending hours in the sun. I’ve always been careful to feed on a schedule, so I don’t lose control, so this —” he hesitates, picking at the fabric of his pants distractedly. “I just don’t know, okay?” 

Michael frowns. The expression isn’t unhappy; it’s the same frown Michael wears when presented with a unique puzzle, like a difficult physics problem or a philosophical hypothetical like the ones Max is so fond of throwing out for discussion. “What difference does the sun make?” he asks finally, every inch a scientist adjusting an equation for variables.

So Alex explains what he knows about how the sun affects his blood consumption, tripping over some of the words. Besides the one-sided conversation with Sebastian right after his transformation, Alex has never had anyone to talk about these things with. It’s all been locked up in his head, hidden beneath the self-loathing he felt every time he was confronted with the reality of vampirism. It’s a relief to finally be able to say the words aloud, despite the awkward situation, and it gets easier the longer he speaks. 

“Okay, so, the longer we’re in the sun the worse it’s going to get,” Michael summarizes succinctly. “Considering we’re in the middle of the desert, I think we’ve got to assume you’re going to keep burning energy pretty quickly.” He pauses to wipe sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and Alex tracks the motion with his eyes, unable to stop watching Michael — as always. “So, how much blood do you normally drink at once? If you’re following your schedule? And how often?” 

Alex blanches at the frank nature of the question. Talking about the science behind vampirism is one thing — admitting to the more personal aspects is harder. He still hasn’t forgotten that less than half an hour ago, he was fangs-deep in Michael’s neck and rutting against him without any care for propriety, and this topic is coming dangerously close to touching that one. But he answers, as shortly as possible. “The bags say 300 millimeters on them. I drink three every day, at normal meal times — about six hours apart. If I push it past six, I start to notice how hungry I am, and I’ve never gone longer than seven.” He winces. “Until today, anyway.” 

Most people, Alex thinks, would have a hard time believing that he doesn’t have all the information about what he is. He’d made the same assumptions about Alex, after all, and knows Liz did too, after Max revealed his heritage to her. It’s a natural response, to assume that when someone admits that they’re a different species that they know their own biology, at the very least. But Michael knows better. He understands what it’s like to be something other than human and be left with more questions than answers. He knows exactly how it feels to lack control over parts of himself, and have no idea why. So he doesn’t demand anything, doesn’t look at Alex like he’s an idiot. He just nods and adds the limited knowledge to whatever equation he’s putting together in his mind. 

“So you normally have 900 millilitres of blood a day, and today you’ve had — what, maybe fifty? You spent more time apologizing than you did actually drinking anything.” There’s the barest insinuation of an accusation in the statement, and Alex finds himself giving Guerin a flat look in response. “And we’re trapped in the middle of the desert, so whatever you did actually have will be burned off in an hour or so, according to that math. I’m not liking those odds, Manes.” 

Alex sighs and rubs at his face. He’s more than ready to stop discussing his feeding habits, and vampirism at all — not that he thinks he’s going to get out of it. Michael’s going to have more questions, of course, and Alex owes him the answers. And it’s not even that Michael’s being overly personal about his inquiries; he’s being entirely professional, treating everything as more of a scientific hypothesis than anything else. 

But maybe that’s the problem. Alex doesn’t want to be a science experiment to Michael, nor a problem to solve. He wants everything between them to be personal, and always has. Being able to open up to someone about vampirism, about all the things he doesn’t know and all of his fears and uncertainties is simultaneously terrifying and alluring, and Alex wants Michael to be that person. But instead, he’s treating him as clinically as any doctor Alex has ever seen. 

“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?” Michael announces, folding his arms over his chest and glaring balefully at Alex when he only lapses into silence once again. It seems the safest option, considering he’s been far more open and honest about himself than he can ever remember being before. 

“Just bite me again. You know you’re not going to lose your shit and kill me this time, and losing 300 mL of blood isn’t enough to hurt someone with my mass. It’ll be fine, and then we can actually move onto figuring out how to get back to town instead of worrying about how long we have before you start screaming again.” He’s completely matter-of-fact as he speaks, and doesn’t let Alex even get a word in edgewise before pressing his body closer and tipping his head to one side, revealing the two careful puncture marks Alex made earlier. The motion tugs at the skin, and fresh blood wells at the site, making the monster in Alex’s chest snarl with want.

Instinct intervenes, and Alex’s fangs slide from his gums. His entire body thrills at the acrid scent in the air, and he’s tipping his head forward before he catches himself. “Damn it, Guerin,” he mutters, closing his eyes deliberately. “What if I —” 

“What if you actually relax and let me take care of you?” Michael interjects. “Yeah, that’d be a real fucking shame, wouldn’t it?” The bitterness is harder to ignore now, and it hurts in a visceral way that leaves Alex aching to prove Michael wrong. “I told you. You’re not going to do anything I don’t want. You stopped when I told you to before, even when you were out of it, so I’m not worried. So just — do it and _stop arguing_, for fuck’s sake.”

And god help him, Alex does. And this time, when he’s overtaken by the rush of endorphins and energy, he doesn’t even try stop his hand from wandering down the front of Michael’s jeans.


End file.
